


The Best Laid Plans

by extasiswings



Series: a better fate [2]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Future Fic, Mostly Fluff, Pregnancy, Some angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2018-03-05
Packaged: 2019-03-27 07:22:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13876002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Lucy Preston had a plan for her life. A good plan. A solid plan. She was going to get her degrees, become a professor, work her ass off until she got tenure, and then maybe,maybefall in love, get married, and have children. Her plan did not involve losing her sister and her mother, finding out her entire life was a lie, and having to travel through time to save history from destruction. It also definitely did not involve Garcia Flynn.But then, the universe has never cared a whole hell of a lot about Lucy’s plans.[Sequel of sorts totake a breath (dive in)]





	The Best Laid Plans

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [take a breath (dive in)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519701) by [extasiswings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings). 



> Brought to you by the requests of qqueenofhades and prairiepirate and the fact that I've watched 6 seasons of ER in two weeks and Goran needs to not with small children and babies. My heart can't handle it.

Lucy Preston had a plan for her life. A good plan. A solid plan. She was going to get her degrees, become a professor, work her ass off until she got tenure, and then maybe, _maybe_ fall in love, get married, and have children. Her plan did not involve losing her sister and her mother, finding out her entire life was a lie, and having to travel through time to save history from destruction. It also definitely did not involve Garcia Flynn. 

But then, the universe has never cared a whole hell of a lot about Lucy’s plans.

* * *

When Lucy gets pregnant, she starts making plans again. She goes to doctor’s appointments, sometimes with Flynn, sometimes alone. She schedules a c-section because the finality of it on the calendar is more comforting than a due date that may or may not be when she actually goes into labor. She fills out all the right forms that will let her be out on maternity leave in the fall and makes arrangements to teach over the summer instead. 

(She makes plans because it’s easier to do that than think about the fact that she’s having a child. Because that? Is terrifying.)

* * *

_“If you ask me to marry you because of this, I may hurt you.”_  
_“What if I asked you to marry me because I want to marry you?”_  
_“I suppose I might have to at least consider it._

“Marry me.”

Lucy’s three months along when it happens, and it must be another one of the universe’s little jokes because it’s not the kind of proposal anyone plans for. Not that she had any grand dreams of horse-drawn carriages or rings hidden in champagne glasses—she’s not one for fuss and an over-the-top proposal wouldn’t be Flynn’s style anyway—but she certainly never expected to be asked while sitting on the bathroom floor in her pjs after spending fifteen minutes dealing with morning sickness.

“What?”

Flynn presses a glass of water into Lucy’s hand while she stares as though she’s seriously considering having him committed, and lays a damp towel across the back of her neck immediately after. 

“You said to distract you,” he replies. 

“And you thought you’d do that by _proposing_?”

Flynn’s lips quirk up as he shrugs.

“Yes? It worked, didn’t it?”

Lucy shakes her head. “I should turn you down just for that.”

“Probably,” Flynn acknowledges. “Marry me anyway?”

And God help her, she says yes. 

The wedding itself is nothing fancy—just the two of them at a courthouse with Wyatt, Rufus, and Jiya as witnesses. Lucy doesn’t wear white, they write their own vows, and she tries not to think about Amy. When she slides the ring onto Flynn’s finger, she can’t help picturing his other ring, _Lorena’s_ ring, now in a box in their bedside table. 

(Lucy knows Flynn loves her, and she’s not jealous of a ghost, but it’s so hard not to wonder and to worry that she won’t measure up.)

Flynn is a good husband. That should maybe be less surprising than it is—after all, Lucy’s already spent months living with him, an official piece of paper saying they’re married doesn’t change anything—but given how their relationship started off, she forgives herself for being startled by how easy things seem for him.

He cooks and he cleans and he puts up with her ridiculous mood swings and yes, sometimes he disappears for a few hours without advance notice, but he’s getting better at talking to her when he inevitably comes home with red eyes. 

(She doesn’t push because she has her own demons to sort through, her own times when she needs to be alone to think, or cry, or scream, because they were forced to go through so much that they never should have and they all have scars.)

* * *

“Garcia.”

Five months along and Lucy’s used to waking up in the middle of the night, either from having to pee, from being kicked in unpleasant places, or from needing to eat. Usually, she slips out of bed and returns before Flynn wakes up, but tonight he’s wrapped around her like an octopus. It’s all she can do to turn in his arms and shove lightly at his chest. 

“Garcia, wake up.”

“Hm? What’s wrong?” Flynn mumbles, still half-asleep. Lucy presses her lips together to keep from laughing. 

“I’m hungry,” she explains. “You have to let me get up.”

“What are you hungry for? I could make something…”

Lucy considers that. “Ice cream.”

“How about a vegetable?”

“How about extra fudge sauce?” She counters.

Flynn cracks an eye open, fixing her with an exasperated stare as Lucy musters her most innocent smile.

“It’s what the baby wants.”

“I’m sure it is,” he says, letting go of her and sitting up. “I’m making you something healthy anyway. To eat after the ice cream.”

“I can just take a vitamin!” Lucy laughs as Flynn swings his legs over the side of the bed. “Garcia, it’s 3AM, you don’t have to get up.”

“I’m already awake,” he replies, giving her a wry grin over his shoulder. “Come on.”

“Ice cream first?” She clarifies as she slips out of bed.

“Well, if it’s what the baby wants…”

* * *

6 months along and Lucy wakes up alone, stuck wondering what pulled her out of sleep before muffled speaking from the next room answers that question. Well, _speaking_ is relative. It’s in Croatian, so she can’t be sure, but she’s pretty sure _swearing_ would be more accurate. 

Sure enough, when she stops in the doorway, Lucy finds Flynn in front of a half-assembled crib surrounded by assorted pieces for the rest of it. There are wood shavings in his hair — not laughing takes a herculean effort. 

“Couldn’t sleep?”

Flynn starts, but relaxes when he realizes it’s just her. 

“Nightmares,” he admits, hands fiddling with the assembly instructions. “I wanted to—but this stupid thing won’t—” The words trail off in another smattering of Croatian and Lucy moves to him without thinking. 

“It’s okay,” she says, dusting the shavings away as she runs her fingers through his hair. “There’s plenty of time. He still has three more months before he’ll be needing a crib.”

Flynn wraps his arms around Lucy’s hips, pressing his ear to her stomach. Neither of them say anything, but she doesn’t stop stroking his hair even when the baby kicks hard enough to make her wince. 

“Hey—” Flynn descends easily into a series of foreign murmurings directed at the apparent future soccer player occupying her insides, his tone scolding at first and then simply _soft_. She’s never sure if he doesn’t use English with the baby intentionally or if it’s habit—she can imagine him with Lorena, with Iris, just as he is now. Gentle. Sweet. Kind. It’s probably habit. 

(It’s beautiful, regardless. And Lucy wants to cry when he gets this quiet, this soft, because by all accounts he shouldn’t be capable of it anymore, not after Rittenhouse tried so hard to strip that away. But he is, and God, she loves him.)

“He?” Flynn asks a while later, finally looking up at her. 

Lucy shrugs. “I know we decided not to find out, but it felt weird calling our child an it.”

(What she doesn’t say is that she can feel in her bones that it’s a boy. She can’t explain it, but she knows.)

He kisses her stomach and lets her pull him to his feet. 

“Fair enough.”

“Back to bed?”

“Back to bed.”

* * *

Seven months along and the universe decides to teach her a lesson about making plans again.

It’s July and Lucy’s standing in front of a classroom of senior undergraduates who all waited until the last minute to get their history elective out of the way. The room is stifling because the air circulation in her classroom is shit and facilities has told her they’re working on it, but that doesn’t help her when she’s sweating through her blouse and her head is swimming. 

“Dr. Preston?”

She remembers turning her head to call on the student. She wakes up in the hospital. 

“Lucy? Luce!” 

Wyatt’s face swims into focus amidst the white walls and dull beeping of machines. They were supposed to have lunch after her class…

“What happened?” She croaks.

“You passed out,” he says, reaching past her to press the call button for a nurse. “You were talking one minute and then you just...dropped like a sack of bricks. Nearly gave me a heart attack.”

“Garcia?”

“On his way.”

“And the—” Lucy’s hand drops to her stomach, a frisson of fear prickling over her skin. 

“He’s okay, Luce,” Wyatt replies, covering her hand with his. “They want to run some more tests because it was a hard fall, but everything looks good so far.”

The reassurance and a few deep breaths push down her rising panic enough that her head is clear when the nurse comes in. 

“How are you feeling Mrs. Logan?” 

_Mrs. L—_ Lucy chokes. Wyatt clears his throat and flushes red. 

“Preston,” she manages. “Wyatt’s not—we’re not—”

“We’re friends,” Wyatt finishes. “I was there when she fell, that’s why I brought her in.”

“Oh!” It’s the nurse’s turn to flush. “I’m so sorry, I just assumed—”

“Lucy?” Flynn bursts through the door, terror written in every line of his face. He only calms a little when he realizes she’s sitting up and alert. 

“I’m okay,” Lucy says, holding out her hands to him. Wyatt steps back from the bed as Flynn crosses the room in two strides to take his place at her side. “At least, I think so.”

“The doctor will be in soon,” the nurse says. She makes a few notes on Lucy’s chart after looking at the monitor, then leaves, clearly electing against dealing with Lucy’s actual worried husband. 

(Lucy...can’t really blame her for that.)

_I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine._

Seven months along and the doctor wants to keep Lucy overnight for observation. Seven months along and she gets a shot of something that’s supposed to help the baby’s lung development _just as a precaution_ , which isn’t comforting no matter how calmly it’s explained to her. 

Seven months along and she wakes up in her hospital bed to a sharp pain and rush of liquid between her thighs. Lucy only has to see the look on Flynn’s face to realize it’s blood. 

_It’s too early,_ she thinks as people snap into action around her, explaining rapid-fire that she needs an emergency c-section. She wants to scream, she wants to cry, but she’s frozen with fear, crushing Flynn’s hand with her grip as nurses wheel her to surgery. 

_It’s too early._

(She’s never thought of herself as particularly maternal—it’s one of the reasons she’s been so scared—but she would give anything, _anything_ to not deliver, to give their child the last two months he needs to develop properly. To keep him safe.)

Lucy’s awake for the surgery—only her lower half is numbed. She wanted to be awake in case...in case…

_In case it’s the only chance I have to see him alive._

She doesn’t watch the doctors. She watches Flynn. And he watches her. 

_I love you._

“Okay, the cord is cut,” the surgeon says, and both of them look over to see her pass off the too-small form to residents from the NICU. “Dr. Preston, Mr. Flynn, your son is in excellent hands, don’t worry.”

“Doctor, we’ve got some bleeding—”

Lucy tunes out the personnel working on her, staring at the incubator in the corner, the preemie-sized intubation kit, the two doctors hooking her son up to wires and tubes to take his vitals and help him breathe, help him live. 

When they start to wheel him out of the room, Lucy squeezes Flynn’s hand. 

“Go with him.”

Flynn’s face twists with indecision as he looks between the surgeons, Lucy, and their son. 

“I—I don’t want to leave you.”

Lucy blinks hard against the tears that threaten to fall. 

“I don’t want him to be alone,” she says.

“Wyatt—”

“Garcia. You’re his father. Please.”

Flynn presses a kiss to her forehead and goes to meet his son. 

When Lucy focuses on the surgeons, she hears snippets of conversation about too much bleeding, about DIC, whatever that is. She hears a call for another transfusion.

She closes her eyes.

* * *

In a perfect world, Ethan Flynn would have been born in September, fully developed with no complications. But it’s not a perfect world.

Lucy does have to hand it to the universe though—given how much worse things could have been, it at least knows when to quit. Or maybe doesn’t have it out for her quite as much as it could.

(That’s what she tells herself at any rate, once she recovers from surgery and Ethan is released from the NICU on September 6th, as healthy and happy and _perfect_ as he could possibly be.)

Three months after they bring Ethan home, Lucy starts thinking she might be better at parenting than she expected to be. Of course, it helps that she has good assistance. 

“Lucy?”

“Hm?” 

“You fell asleep again.”

Lucy opens her eyes and takes in the zoo animal wallpaper, the stars and planets mobile, and of course, the crib that Flynn finished the week before Ethan was born, their son inside and curled around a stuffed lion. 

“I just sat down,” she insists. Flynn shakes his head.

“That was two hours ago, love. Come on, you should sleep in a real bed, not an armchair.” 

“But what if he—” It’s a half-hearted protest even before Flynn kisses her, but Lucy melts into him at that. From there, it’s the easiest thing in the world for him to carry her to their room. 

“He’ll wake up,” she murmurs, already half asleep by the time Flynn lays her down. 

“If he does, I’ll sit with him. You’re exhausted.”

“‘M not.”

“ _Sleep_ , love.”

That, at least, is one plan Lucy doesn’t think the universe can argue with.


End file.
